


I'm Sorry I'm Late.

by OnlyHereForGallavich (orphan_account)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, EMT!Ian, Gallavich, Heavy Angst, M/M, Reunion, Suicidal Thoughts, True Love, post 5x12, tw: Mentions of Suicide, worried!ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 07:19:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10079231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/OnlyHereForGallavich
Summary: Ian's on his way home when he sees a man on the rail of a bridge.The man's not as unfamiliar as he initially thinks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hiii!
> 
> Okay, straight up, this contains detailed description of someone who is CONSIDERING suicide. There is no actual self harm or death, or even the mention of the word, but please proceed with caution.
> 
> This is a world where 5x12 happened, but 6x01 never did. 
> 
> hope you enjoy xx
> 
> side note: I recently started doing prompts, so feel free to send prompts to www.immabookgeek.tumblr.com/ask

   Ian knew what it felt like to be scared; terrified for those around you and yourself, when you saw a prescription and forty years of meds before you. Or at least he thought he did.

 

   He didn’t, not really. Not until he was walking down the Wabash Avenue Bridge on his way to his crappy little apartment on the fringes of the North Side, takeout Chinese in his hand and mind empty with the tiredness that came with a long day as an EMT. He reviewed his day in his mind; two burn victims that were saved and one car crash victim who was hardly holding on when his shift had ended.

 

   He sighed. No matter how many people he saw die, he would never manage to be blasé about it. It came with the job, he knew that, but his heart still fell whenever he saw someone’s brother, sister, lover die in his care. Mind preoccupied with those morbid thoughts, Ian glanced up lightly, looked away and then quickly did a double take.

 

   There was a figure standing there. A man in dark clothes that melded with the night. A man who wasn’t safely on the pavement like Ian was, but on the wrong side of the rail. A man who didn’t move, just sat there motionless like a statue, clothes waving in the air even as he remained completely static. The weather was changing, becoming colder, but the man was in just a t-shirt. A man who any idiot could tell wasn’t counting on staying in the world much longer.

 

   Two steps and closer observation revealed something that broke Ian’s heart. Fractured it clean in half like he had thought already happened two years ago when he had gone to the Milkovich house to patch things up only to find that the person he was looking for was in jail. When he had visited the prison only to find that he couldn’t bring himself to take that step inside. What if he hated Ian? He was, after all, not only responsible for his broken heart, but also his arrest.

 

   He hadn’t gone in, in the end. He hadn’t been brave enough to engage with the possibility that Mickey didn’t want him anymore.

 

   Selfish. _Selfish._

 

   That wasn’t just a man on the rail, about to take a step that would be his last. Ian knew those tattooed fingers; had felt them on his skin. He knew that body, it had pressed against him into the warmth of their bed more times than he could count.

 

   He knew him, he _knew_ him.

 

   “Mickey,” He breathed under his breath.

 

   Every moment was one wasted. Every moment could be the one that Mickey would drop down right before Ian’s eyes, just a breath away. Ian moved forward, even as his mind curled in on itself and cried because Mickey was the strongest person he knew and he was ready to end it all.

 

   In that moment, Ian finally understood. He finally fathomed just how _strong_ Mickey had been, how he hadn’t been fussing about Ian because he wanted to fix him, but because he was _so fucking_ scared for him. Ian finally understood, now as he moved towards the boy, closing the distance between them, scared that every breath would be the last one they would share. The fear that filled him was sickening; it made him want to puke his guts out. Being with Ian back then had been living with this gut-wrenching fear constantly, and Ian had no idea how Mickey had survived.

 

   “Mickey,” he said louder this time, trying to use his EMT voice, but getting a garbled mess instead, “Mickey, _please._ ”

 

   That started the other boy, and Ian’s heart was in his throat; he could practically see Mickey losing his balance and falling after that start. He could breathe again when he saw that Mickey had not only regained his balance, but also craned his neck to face him. “What the _fuck,”_ he muttered, and Ian wanted to cry even more because that was first time he had heard Mickey’s voice in more than two years. It still held the Southside accent, but none of the Southside attitude. It sounded defeated; like he had wandered the whole world and figured out that it wasn’t worth it.

 

   “Fucking great,” Mickey spoke, mostly to himself, letting out a harsh and incredulous laugh, “Hallucinating now. And of course it’s you. Of course it is.” A car drove passed them, illuminating Mickey’s face for long enough to see the dried up tear tracks, the dullness of his eyes. He could smell alcohol on Mickey’s breath, and hear the hysteria in his voice. Mickey wasn’t okay.

 

   Of _course_ he wasn’t. He was on a bridge a little after midnight, looking to death to grant him escape. But it still hit Ian like a bullet: Mickey wasn’t okay. It was like all the suppressed, tucked away love Ian had for him came back in full force, and Ian just knew that if Mickey did this, he wouldn’t survive either. He would die the moment Mickey touched the ice cold water and drowned, if the cold didn't kill him first.  

 

   “I’m here, Mick. _Please,_ just come back here. You don’t have to do this,” he tried to meld pleading and firmness in his voice, hoping something would reach the other boy. “Yeah you’re here,” Mickey inserted another one of those sardonic laughs, wobbling dangerously, “How long this time, Gallagher? A week? Or are you gonna spare this piece of trash a month this time?”

 

   Guilt filled Ian, cold and potent, the way it did whenever he thought of Mickey and the way he hadn’t abandoned him. He had thought that Mickey would be better off without him. But he wasn't. Mickey wasn't okay.

 

   Ian reached out a gentle hand, careful not to freak him out, and rested it on Mickey’s, which was tightly gripping the rail. That was good. He was holding on.

 

   “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, voice trembling.

 

   Ian could never describe, for the rest of his life, no matter how strong his vocabulary got, the relief he felt when Mickey took his hand. When he took his hand, and climbed over to safety.  

 

//

 

   “I wasn’t going to do it.”

 

   Ian stayed silent.

 

   “I wasn’t.”

 

   “Okay.”

 

//

 

   They build a life together. It takes a while for Mickey to completely trust Ian again. He still looks nervous every time Ian says they should talk. He still looks at Ian with panic sometimes, like he’s a bomb waiting to go off.

 

   It’s not easy.

 

   But they do it anyway.

 

   Ian’s shitty apartment becomes _their_ shitty apartment. Mickey gets a job as a mechanic. It’s a little hard considering he’s got an incarceration behind him, but when they hear he was wrongfully convicted and let out for lack of evidence, they give him a temp job, which turns into a permanent one. They wake up in the morning, tangled up together, went to work, ate shitty takeout and fell asleep the same way they wake up.

 

   It’s not luxury; but it’s perfect.

 

   Three years later, Ian asks Mickey to marry him. Mickey says yes, because _of course_ he does.

 

   That night, as their eyelids droops and heartbeats slow, Mickey breathes, “I was going to do it.” Ian just _knows_ what he’s referring to, even though it’s been three years and they try never mentioning it. “I was going to do it, but I’m glad I didn't. I’m glad you came.”

 

   Ian burrows his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck. He wants to cry, but he doesn’t. He just says, “I’m sorry I was late.”

 

//


End file.
